


Nothing Can Hurt Me Now

by Leamas



Category: Declare - Tim Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, implied paranormal shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 05:02:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10892241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas/pseuds/Leamas
Summary: Elena resigned herself when the worst happened and Marcel was taken; she had not thought of what she would do when he returned.





	Nothing Can Hurt Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> 2/6/2017: I made some changes at the suggestion of vials for how this fic could be improved, so thank you for the suggestions. Thanks as well for being my shameless paranormal inspiration, as well as for your gore expertise.

Elena knew what the Gestapo did to the spies they caught because it was no different than what any other fascist regime did to anyone who resisted them. She saw it first in Spain, and if nothing else could be said for the experience then at the very least she was prepared when it happened in France, too.

What she hadn’t been prepared for was that it would not be her who was taken, but Marcel. Worse, she hadn’t been prepared to lose someone who was directly her responsibility. She had lost people before, both in the sense that someone she cared about was taken from her prematurely, and as a direct fault of her own. It happened, Elena knew; that was a cost of fighting, and it was one Elena was willing to pay. Nonetheless there was no way to every truly prepare herself. Even expecting it, and anticipating the unforeseen toll it would take on her, Elena could not shake the lingering thought that this time it was even more her fault – because she had been responsible for Marcel, and also because he had put himself in harm’s way to give Elena the chance to take the radio and run.

How could she have expected that he would be okay? She should have known better.

“And what difference would that have made?” Elena asked herself out loud, not for the first time since she found herself alone. Her voice echoed around the empty walls of the emergency safehouse she now took shelter in.

She knew the answer very simply: consciously knowing would have done nothing. She would have had to make the same decision to sacrifice Marcel if it meant that one of them could get away. What was the alternative? To let Marcel’s sacrifice be in vain?

Elena was aware enough of her own weakness to know that had she anticipated Marcel’s capture, she would have hesitated. The deep ache and guilt she felt at what she knew was being done to Marcel confirmed this. But she also knew her conviction. There was only one thing Elena could believe in. As hard as it was, she would have set her feelings aside and done what was asked of her in the name of the Party.

It wouldn’t be safe to stay here for long. When she was in a more secure location, she would have to get a message back to Moscow that she had been forced to find refuge here. She would also need to report Marcel’s capture, and assumed death.

It would be presumed that Marcel would talk. Out of everything, Elena found that to be the most unfair – everything else she could justify. It was, after all, a war. Casualties were inevitable -- even if this casualty was her fault. But to know that such a brand of personal weakness would be assigned to Marcel? Elena hated to think of it. It wasn’t fair!

Elena didn’t know why she felt this so strongly. Although he was a hard worker, and although he was committed, it became evident to Elena that he was not as committed as she was. Any support was good support, but in the face of the torture she knew awaited Marcel, the possibility that he would break seemed woefully likely. But in such moments as this, when she found herself alone, with nothing to do except to wait for the next morning’s failures to present themselves for her to fix, Elena found herself desperately wishing that others had the chance to fail before they were branded as such.

The feeling didn’t last. She understood the reason, and just as soon as she felt the anger begin to burst in her, Elena instantly felt ashamed. It was a precaution; how careless it would be to give everyone the chance to fail, all to protect their individual pride?

She crossed her hands over her legs and sat against the wall. There was a bed but she did not want to sleep in it. The radio, and its case, was pushed against the wall opposite her – as far from herself as it could be in such a small room. From where she sat looking at it, it seemed to taunt her cruelly from across the room.

 What was she to do except wait? Elena couldn’t think of anything. The next day she would need to find her way back to her agents, collecting what information she could from them for the sake of sending it back. Although it was Marcel’s job, she was very competent herself. She would have to continue working even when it was difficult. She would do it in his memory.

But for now there was nothing she could do, except to wait.

The night crept forward slowly. Elena folded her arms over her knees and rested her head on them, staring at the wall. The radio was still on the other side of the room, curled tightly upon itself and ready to strike as soon as it had the chance. She caught sight of the bed from the corner of her eye and felt that she really should make use of it, but thinking of doing so left her feeling another wave of guilt until she pushed that thought from her head, and vowed to stay on the floor for the rest of the night. She wouldn’t allow herself to grow comfortable; she wouldn’t allow herself to sleep. Who did she think she was, anyway? Didn’t she know there was a war happening just outside, one whose presence she was needed for?

She felt another surge of anger rush up inside of her. Before she had the opportunity to swallow it back down, a knock came at the door, startling her away from any emotions she may have been harbouring. Fearfully, she looked across the room to the door, trying to measure the distance between it and herself. Then she tried to remember how far it was to the window. If an assailant burst through the door right now, would she be able to make it to the window in time? Or would she be required to take her life in a different way?

The knock followed again.

“O fish,” she heard a familiar voice from the other side of the door say, and she felt her breath stop. “Are you constant to the old covenant?”

It was unmistakable – the voice, and how uncertain he sounded as he called to her. Shakily, she pushed herself up from the floor and forced herself to march to the door.

When she spoke, it was too her relief to find that her own voice did not shake. “Return and we return. Keep faith, and so will we.”

Never in her life had anyone she lost returned, and yet here was Marcel, just on the other side of the door! But experience taught her that it couldn’t be. No matter how much she wanted to believe that perhaps this time it was true, she knew better than to simply believe something. She waited to hear Marcel’s  _Bless me_  ooze through the door before asking to be let in, which would give her just enough chance to take the radio and to run. The longer she waited, the more certain she was that it would come, but it did not.

Finally Elena couldn’t take it anymore. She pulled the door open.

To her surprise, Marcel stood before her. Perhaps an even bigger surprise was that he was alone; she looked up and down the hallways for any sign that he had been followed, but of course he wouldn’t. He would not do anything if it meant that it would endanger her.

Quickly, before she had the chance to analyse what that thought meant, Elena took Marcel’s arm and pulled him inside. She quickly closed the door after him.

“You weren’t followed?” she asked.

“No,” he said, staring up at her with two bruised eyes. His voice was muffled by a slightly swollen lip, and one of his cheeks looked puffy. “I promise.”

“But how can you be sure?” Elena asked. “You don’t know that you weren’t followed.”

“I was careful. No one could see me.”

Suddenly it was so easy for her to imagine him tapping out the clochard rhythm on the pavement.

“How did you find me?”

“I asked the roads to lead you to me,” he said. “It turns out that they did.”

Elena nodded. There was no way he could have known about here, for she had never told him. That, too, was a question of security. She didn’t know how he could stand to look at her with the knowledge that she had told him nothing about where to go and what to do should he be captured – what would he have done if he were alone? He would have been captured again, especially in the state he was in. They might have shot him, or continued to shoot him.

And yet here he was, continuing to stand in front of her and watch her with those terrible watery blue eyes.

Marcel was swaying on his feet. He watched her like a seasick man might look to the horizon, in search of a steadying force. Elena had a sickwith the urge to run over and wrap her arms around him for support, or to help him back to the bed, but thankfully she was able to stop herself. Her own hands formed small fists at her side.

Everything about him looked terrible. His blond hair was a mess, looking to have been pulled from every which way. Along with the dark bruises under his eyes and his swelling cheeks, she caught the shadow of a cut under his hairline.

“How did you get away?” she asked.

Marcel stared at her with his terrible blue eyes and shook his head. He didn’t answer her right away, although several times it looked as though he might try. Eventually he managed to say, “I d-don’t know.”

He sounded so broken as he said it that Elena found herself believing him without question. It was her first sign that something was not right, that perhaps he did know more than he was letting on, but something about the sound of his voice prevented her from asking.

At least he was with her now; Elena still had a chance to protect him.

“Sit on the bed,” Elena said. “And take off your shirt. You’ll need to tell me where you were injured.”

He did, shuffling backwards against the bed and falling onto it. It wasn’t a bad fall, but he grunted with pain. Elena walked slowly across the room to join him.

“Let me take your jacket,” she said.

“I’m fine,” Marcel told her. His voice was hoarse. Sitting this close to him she smelled his sweat, and blood. Her throat tightened. She refrained from settling an arm on his shoulder, and instead sat back on the bed to give him space as he unbuttoned his jacket and then carefully, slowly, pulled it off.

The front of his shirt was stained with blood, gathered mostly around his chest. Elena reached forward and touched it; Marcel pulled away when she did, gathering his arms across his chest and sitting protectively around this new wound.

“What happened?” Elena asked.

Marcel simply shook his head, leaving Elena to sight.

“You must take off your shirt,” she said to him. She looked at the back of his wrist, where two circular red blisters peaked out from beneath the hem of his shirt. Cigarette burns, which she had seen before.

“Marcel,” she said quietly, when he made no effort to move. For a time he sat completely motionless, but just when Elena thought she would be forced to intervene he finally moved. His hands shook as he unbuttoned his shirt, and with every movement of his arms a hiss of pain escaped him. Elena found herself watching his stiff, inelegant movements as he struggled with his shirt.

When finally he finished unbuttoning his shirt, he pushed it off one shoulder with what looked like a concentrated effort. His face was turned away from her; all of him was turned inwards. Although he was right in front of her, Elena discovered that she was able to see shockingly little of him.

“It helps,” Elena said, “if you take it off quickly. Force yourself to work through the pain all at once, rather than drawing it out for so long like this.”

Marcel looked up at her. His hands stayed on his lap until finally he raised one of them to try again. This, too, was no success.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “You don’t have to look. They didn’t hit me too hard.”

Elena snorted. She edged closer, resting a hand on his shoulder and turning him to face her. Quickly he looked up at her with those same lost blue eyes. His gaze only lingered on hers for a moment before he was looking down at her hand, where she touched him.

“Let me do this,” she said. “Don’t worry – it isn’t too cold. And it will be quick. I will not drag out your suffering unnecessarily.”

He let her pull his shirt off. As soon as she did he huddled over himself again, wrapping his arms across his bare chest. Elena felt that he was hiding something from her, but already, what she saw of his back looked severe enough. Several bruises were appearing like splotches all across his back; she recognised the shape of a boot.

In the centre of his back Elena saw another wound. It was round like burn, and blistering. It was raw, and sat on him like an open sore.

“Were you shot?”

He waited for a moment, and then shook his head. “I was not hurt badly.”

“I know,” she said. “But I have to look. Sometimes what people think is not serious actually is. So will you show me?”

“They didn’t do anything worse than hitting me a few times.”

“And kicking you.”

He nodded.

“Were you burnt?” Elena asked. He didn’t answer right away, she forcefully repressed a frustrated sigh. “If you weren’t hurt badly then you shouldn’t have a problem showing me. Wouldn’t you rather I look and only agree with you, than be right and have no way to help you?” He didn’t answer this, either, and so finally, in exasperation, Elena said, “What do you think could have happened to you that is shocking? I promise, I have seen worse.”

Marcel shivered. Elena would have to lay him down soon, putting him to sleep and allowing him the chance to recover. She only hoped that she would first have the chance to examine him. He was her responsibility, after all, and really it was only fair; it should have been her in this situation instead.

Finally he uncurled himself, and turned to face her. His eyes found hers again, so blue that Elena could hardly believe they were real.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop being silly,” Elena said. “Now let me see what’s happened to you.”

The bruises on his chest were worse, and when Elena touched his side he shuddered. There were burns at the top of his chest that were similar to the ones she had noted on the back of his hands. Over his ribs the bruises were a deeper purple, and she feared they indicated a broken rib or two.

And in the centre of his chest was an exit wound. Her hand stilled where it hovered over Marcel’s side before returning to her own lap. When she’d pulled his shirt off, dried blood peeled away and made him bleed again. Elena saw blisters. An assortment of bruises covered his sides and ribs.

When she touched him, he curled over himself with a whimper. Elena’s fingers came away with traces of blood, although not as much as she expected. She grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him up, so she could look again.

The injuries were brutal, or they had been. For as much blood as there was dried to his skin, on closer inspection Elena found that the wound, although still open and painful, was not as bad as it first appeared. Vivid pink scar tissue was already forming around the injury; it was only the centre of the exit wound that was still open.

Elena had seen bullet wounds before, in heads and arms. She had spent nights with comrades who had been shot and beaten and who were dying. Many had been beaten less severely than Marcel; many had died of bullet wounds that were only half as bad. She had never seen such a precariously placed wound begin to heal, because most people did not survive long enough for their bodies to recover.

Simply put, Marcel should have been dead. Even if the wound had not punctured his heart, it should have torn through his lungs and he should have at least been coughing up blood. For him to have made it home would have been impossible.

But Marcel was not bleeding from his mouth, or having trouble taking a full breath of air. His broken ribs seemed to cause him more pain than the gunshot wound.

 “You will have to keep these clean,” she finally told him, when she finished her examination. It surprised her that her voice was steady at all. “You may be tempted to pick at them, but I strongly suggest you don’t.”

“I won’t,” he promised.

“Good,” Elena said. “Now lay down. I’ll give you the bed tonight. Don’t look at me like that – you need it more than I do.”

“It really isn’t that bad,” Marcel said. “Anyway, you’re going to be taking care of us for now. You’ll have to decide what to do next. You need the sleep more than I do.”

Elena shook her head. She placed a hand on his shoulder finally and pushed him down, so his head touched the pillow.

“I will be fine,” she said. “I am not so selfish that I would take a bed from an injured man.”

“Then stay with me.”

“I will,” Elena said. She stood up and pulled the blanket over Marcel. Despite his protests he offered no indication that he would refuse her offer, instead curling up tightly under it and letting Elena to tuck him in. When she was finished she sat on the floor beside him, wrapping her knees under him and leaning over the bed.

“Marcel,” she said, quietly. “You will be okay. You’ve made it; you’re safe. I can’t think of any other spy who has escaped like you have.”

Marcel offered Elena a smile, and although it seemed he intended to be comforting and reassuring, Elena felt neither. All she felt was so terrible for Marcel, to have gone through this alone and to the escape, finding his way back to her through a means that she could not fully comprehend, and for her to be able to give him nothing in return. There was nothing Elena could think to do that would ease his pain and comfort. Once again, she wished desperately that it were her in his position.

Although if it were her, she would be dead. It wasn’t a question of her commitment or perseverance; she would not have been able to survive a gunshot wound like that. Part of being willing to die for her cause meant accepting that death was inevitable. She accepted that. A gunshot like that would be fatal.

So why was Marcel not dead?

“You must rest.”

“I will.”

“Good,” Elena said. “I will sit here. I’ll keep watch over you.”

“You should sleep.”

She shook her head. “Nonsense. I don’t need it. This is more urgent, anyway.” He did not seem thoroughly convinced when she looked back at him and so she said, “If we are alive tomorrow, I will sleep when we find safety.”

“What’s safer than this?”

“A lot, Marcel.”

He gave her a weak smile. “I love you.”

Pain and fear made one do stupid things; Elena knew this. She tried to remember this as she felt some part of herself filling with warmth – the same part of herself that wanted to touch him was back again. She forced herself not to. Nothing would be accomplished if she gave in and took comfort simply because she was afraid. It was only the fear and relief talking.

“I know, Marcel,” she said. “You were very brave tonight. Try to sleep. You will need it for what’s ahead.”

Marcel continued, though, his words beginning to slur from exhaustion. It was as though landing on the bed weakened him, or awoke him to the overall state of his body and forced him to concede that Elena was right. “I’m glad you're safe.”

“Of course I am,” Elena said. “You made a sacrifice for me – for the Party. I wasn’t going to let it be in vain.”

“I did it for you,” Marcel said. He reached his hand out to her – not touching her, but laying his hand on the bed so close to hers. “I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Marcel,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and looked down at him. “You need to sleep.”

“It isn’t nonsense.”

“What would you achieve by being hurt more?” Elena demanded. “Tell me, Marcel.”

“Nothing can hurt me now,” he murmured. “Not if it was for you.”

“You are so ridiculous,” Elena said. She thought of the wound again, and tried to push it from her mind. “Look. Try to sleep. You don’t have long now. We will have to leave tomorrow, to find someplace safe again. Don’t try to stay up – don’t try to convince me of this, either,” she added, when she saw how he opened her mouth and the gaze with which he looked at her.

He closed his eyes, and finally leaned back against the bed. “I love you, Elena.”

“Yes, Marcel,” she said. “I know. But try to sleep. Please.”

He nodded. Elena remained by his bedside watching over him until she was certain that he was comfortably asleep. When it happened, she settled with her back against the bed and kept watching, relieved to know he was with her again.

 


End file.
